Physician, Heal Thyself
by Aimless Traveler
Summary: Oh Death, where is your sting? Oh Hades, where is your victory?


Disclaimer: This is a _fanfic_, people!!! I wish, I really, _really_ do!!

A/N: This is my first House fanfic, and I'm not going to request that anyone be nice, because I know that every writer needs constructive criticism, myself included. Anyway, this is just a short oneshot that has the potential to develop into a multi-chapter story, depending on reactions to it. Sorry if some of the characters may be OOC at times, I'm not trying to bash anyone, and there are no implied ships in here. Enjoy!

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

_Blip. Blip. Blip._

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

_  
Blip. Blip. Blip._

Bloodshot eyes narrowed at the clock at the far corner of the room. Its ticks and the steady blips of the monitors mixed together, never losing rhythm as they slowly bored their way into ones mind and drove them to insanity. Briefly, he considered crossing the room and smashing the clock face with his fist, silencing its insufferable noise forever.

No. That would take too much effort. As uncomfortable as the hospital's damned plastic chairs were, he made no move to get up. Besides, getting up would mean letting go of the hand he had been clutching for near thirty six hours now. And he was scared, he was terrified that if he let go-even if just for an instant- that the other man would let go as well. He's not sure if he could handle that. Correction, he _knew_ he wouldn't be able to handle that.

And so he squeezed the all too limp, all too cold, all to still hand tighter, as if somehow his grip could command his friend's heart to keep beating, or bind his soul to his broken, mangled body. Unsurprisingly, there was no squeeze in reply, no indication as to whether or not his desperate, unspoken plea was understood, or even taken notice of. Idly, he turned the hand over palm down, marveling at how calloused, yet how _gentle_ the other's hands were. Then he saw the split knuckles, cracked with dry blood, and the unmistakable fight bite on the graceful fingers. His eyes traced a path to the multiple tubes leading out of the wrist.

"_Fuck._" His voice was coarse and rough from being unused for so long, but he couldn't care less, for he remembers then, being jerked out of his small escape from the world with a more than unpleasant bump. More like a bone-jarring crash, actually. Wearily, he scrubbed at his face and heaved a heavy sigh, a bittersweet smile creeping up onto his face. It was a cardboard, almost painful upwards twitching of the lips that would make anyone wince in sympathy. A deep frown crossed his face. Or was it pity?

But fuck 'em all, 'cause he didn't want their pity. He didn't want them coming and apologizing, empty hollow words that held absolutely no meaning whatsoever. None of them would understand the reason for his constant vigil, nor that strange mechanical smile that twisted the bottom portion of his face into that of a deranged maniac. Painfully, he shifted positions, through never once letting go or loosening his grip. Contemplatively, he studied the knuckles, brushing the pad of his thumb over the broken skin.

"You fought back, didn't you," he said softly. His words hung in the air in the otherwise silent room. His only reply was the steady fall and rise of a chest, bandages to hide the stab wounds there. But nothing could hide them from his tortured mind. There were five of them long horizontal slashes that ran deep. They were like strips of red that were carelessly slapped on a pale white canvas, emblazoning themselves into the deepest, darkest recesses of his being, onto the back of his eyelids to taunt him daily.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

"You've always had one hell of a good left punch. And there's no mistaking this defensive bruising. You fought back, didn't you." It wasn't a question, it was a soft statement.

_Blip. Tick. Blip. Tick. Blip._

"What am I saying? Of course you fought back." Inhale, exhale. The bandaged chest behind the flimsy hospital gown slowly rose and fell. His exhausted eyes watched the movement.

"You've always fought back. Always. No matter what the consequences would be, you did what you thought was right, always keeping the best interest of others in mind. You fought back against the world, against Tritter, against everything…against me, too. Especially against me." There was an uncharacteristic crack in his voice, but he didn't care. There was no one here to be embarrassed in front of, save for his best friend- who was, for the time being (he hoped), unconscious.

"I'll be you gave those bastards who jumped you a real surprise. People always thing- they always assume, by first glances, that you're weak, because of-" Here he stopped, swallowing hard. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper, nearly drowned out by the slight hiss of the oxygen mask. "But they never knew that you were- you are- a fighter. You've held your own against me and the world far too many times to just give up now. You can't do this; it's not you. So damn it, stop lying there and wake up!! Wake up, you stubborn-"

All of a sudden, the door slid open and he hastily blinked away the wetness at the corners of his eyes. Lisa Cuddy walked in, her hair limp and flat, cosmetics long worn away from her face. There were heavy bags under her red-rimmed eyes, yet she stood with her shoulders squared, composed and calm (on the outside, at least). She appeared as the white pillar of strength, a tragic heroine. It was like looking at the foundations of the ruined Parthenon or the ashes of Rome, the strong beauty of a disaster. He had to look away.

Cuddy swore she could feel someone very sweetly and neatly reaching out and ripping her heat out of her chest, one tendon and artery at a time. Her grey eyes were heavy storm clouds as she took in the sad sight before her, threatening to burst past their floodgates carefully constructed of iron and steel. Tentatively, she walked up to the hunched form of one of her best doctors and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, she did not.

"Can-"

Her voice was a raspy whisper, like the sound of little girls' crinoline dresses swishing around as they were blown by the wind. It sounded like the croak of someone who had been crying. Could she be anymore obvious? She cleared her parched throat, licked her chapped lips, and tried again. "Can I get you anything? A blanket? Some water?"

"No."

"A pillow perhaps?"

"No, thank you."

The steady blip of the monitors filled the silence and Cuddy sighed. "He's not going to get any better if you neglect yourself; you need to-"

"GODDAMN IT, DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT, CUDDY?!" She jumped three feet in the air and nearly had a heart attack. He whirled on her with sudden vehemence, eyes a caustic fire. She jerked her hand away as if she had been scalded. Sparks seemed to burn her as he glared, and to her surprise, Lisa Cuddy found herself trembling under this intense, nerve-wracking gaze. He didn't stand (and for that she was grateful) but instead, he chose to remain seated, glaring up at her. The effect was no less frightening. His breath came in heavy pants as a result of his outburst and yet he said no more. The look in his eyes said it all.

And yet- underneath it all, she saw the pain. She saw the worry, brokenness, heartache, and guilt. And in those cold, cold cobalt blue eyes, Cuddy saw a dying, ruptured man, whose own guilt was eating him form the inside out. "House," she whispered, refusing to leave him in this pitiful state. But then again, Gregory House was not one who accepted pity. No, he turned it away with a leer of disgust, even at times when he was really, truly hurting- like right now.

Outside the room, three doctors stood looking in on the scene. They too had jumped when House had raised his head and screamed to high heaved at Cuddy just a few seconds prior. The entire hospital must've heard. Of course, all three of them had already been chased out of the room by their boss, along with six different nurses, five of whom he had made cry. They watched as House turned away at last, resting his forehead on the handle of the cane he propped up against the bedside. He seemed worlds away from the snappish, sharp-eyed man they knew who pounced on every single mistake they made and shoved it in their faces to gloat. Now the only mistakes he pounced on like a tiger were the ones the nurses dared to make when coming to check up on the patient.

"That poor man."

Chase and Foremen blinked and stared at their colleague. Cameron refused to look at them, instead keeping her gaze trained inward on the occupants of the room. Chase cleared his throat and spoke, accent automatically thickened by suppressed motion.

"Do you _mean_ that, or are you just-"

"Don't even go there!!" The immunologist snapped, her eyes narrowed as she rounded on the Australian with sudden fury. Rather taken aback at her reaction, Chase held up his hands in a helpless motion of surrender and turned to go. Before he did though, he looked in on his boss and the patient one last time, blonde bangs shadowing his eyes.

Foreman had to look away, he had to get away. The air here was suffocating and if he didn't get a breath of fresh air soon, he would choke. Silently, he observed the man he had always thought of as the arrogant bastard (with whom he just so happened to share the same style of gym shoes, so what did that make him?) and the man in bed. So still and pale. It was all he could do was to mutter a "Sorry."

"It's alright."

Foreman had to smother a bark of incredulous laughter. Of course she would think the apology was meant for her. In the world of sweet, naïve little Allison Cameron, there was a sole population of one. Shaking his head a bit in stunned disbelief, the neurologist left, walking away in the same direction Chase had taken towards the elevators. After all, they still did have a case to solve. Dying patients didn't cure themselves.

Cameron listened to the footsteps of her colleague fade away and yet she stood there still, seeing but not really seeing. After a minute or two, she took a halting step forward the touched the glass wall. How did it always end up like this? Somehow, she was always on the outside looking in. She felt trapped in this prison of glass walls though in actuality, she was the one outside. Her eyes captured the tenderness and fierce protectiveness with which House held the hand of the patient, and felt an instant pang of jealously stab at her heart.

When her husband died and her entire world came crashing down around her, Allison Cameron had made up her mind- she was going to make sure that what happened to her never happened to anyone else. Some doctors called it the Messiah complex; she liked to think of herself as Supergirl. Underestimated and dismissed, she wanted to prove to all that she was, in fact, capable of saving the world.

But then she met Gregory House, the man who had hired her because she was just a pretty face. But her heart went out to him, because her Daddy (May he rest in peace) was right: she was indeed a selfish little girl. For some reason or another, she wanted him, wanted to help him and be all that he needed to help restore the fallen angel to his former glory. Supergirl would make it happen, and she would do it all by herself because as far as she was concerned, she was the only one that liked Gregory House. She had to be.

Thus, seeing him now, lathering all his attention onto someone else made the little green serpent of envy within her hiss dangerously. Her eyes narrowed; she knew she shouldn't feel this way because it was wrong, but she couldn't help it. Would House do the same thing for her if she were the one in that hospital bed? Her breath was beginning to fog up the glass; she was so close. She bit her tongue and the serpent hissed again as it raised its head, baring venomous fangs. She had to win. Supergirl couldn't lose. She never had before, and Cameron sure as hell wasn't going to lose this time.

Unexpectedly, House's head snapped up and unreadable, icy blue eyes locked with hers. _Caught._ Helplessly, all Cameron could do was stare back, transfixed and hypnotized. _See,_ her eyes seemed to plead. _They've all gone and I'm the only one that is left, because I care for you!!_ She stood on the other side of the glass wall, an inch away from begging upon bended knee. _I'm the only one who loves you enough to stand for you when all others have disappeared!! The only one!!_ Her mind screamed as she glanced at the man whose limp hand House held.

The eyes shifted color ever so slightly; now they resembled glacier waters. Without breaking the little staring contest, House said something and Cuddy looked up. Crossing the length of the room, she neared the door and it was all Cameron could do to keep from smiling like a loon. Cuddy was coming to let her in because House had just admitted to needing her comfort. Closer and closer Cuddy came…and then with one sharp, downwards pull, snapped the blinds shut, effectively denying everyone visual access into the room.

Cameron stood there, pretty mouth partially open in shock as she gazed now at her reflection and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. She felt like one of the runner-ups at a beauty pageant, wearing a bright, frozen smile as she was pushed back into the shadows while inwardly seething with pain and disappointment. Slowly, she turned, shoved her hands into the pockets of the lab coat, and walked in the same direction both Foreman and Chase had previously taken. Shoulders hunched, she began to sing in a toneless, small, quivering voice. "I am Supergirl, and I'm here to save the world…" The elevator dinged as it shut, and it was there, behind the momentary safety of the four, thick steel walls, that Cameron allowed herself to cry.

And in that instant, Allison Cameron was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had never felt more jealous in her entire life than she did right now of James Wilson.

"Get her out of here. Make her leave, right now."

Cuddy followed the harsh bark of an order, temporarily forgetting the fact that it was she who signed House's paychecks, and not the other way around. Once the blinds were shut though, she was at a loss of what to do. She certainly did not want to be yelled at again, even though now she was ready if there happened to be a repeat performance.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

_Blip. Blip. Blip._

Cuddy's eyes wandered over to Gregory House, M.D., the manipulative, arrogant, bastard of a brilliant Diagnostician. Right now, he looked like none of the previous items listed above. All he looked like was a world-weary, tired, guilt ridden best friend who would see his soul to turn out the hands of time. House's usual piercing electric eyes had faded to a dull blue and they were fixed on the face of his best (and only) friend, his stance rigid and unmoving. His leg must hurt like a bitch, but she hadn't seen him pop any Vicodin in…thirty six hours. Obviously, his concern for Wilson overrode all other senses in his mind.

Wilson. She had to fight back tears as her gaze moved form one broken, damaged man to the other. His wheezy breaths fogged up the oxygen mask that still hadn't been removed- she wouldn't allow it. His face was pale and drawn, lines of pain etched into his face even in unconsciousness. A bandage encased his head, making a tuff of soft, chestnut hair fall across his forehead. He still wore a neck brace, and for a moment, she stared openly- Wilson looked like an angel. Add to his already stunning physical appearance the fact that he was nearly covered from head to toe in white, she fully expected him to sprout wings and fly away from his world that had been too cruel, too harsh and unforgiving to the gentle, kind man (albeit a little _too_ kind at times, his previous wives could bear witness to that).

But the bruises cracked the façade and sent her spiraling downward to reality. Wilson's face was marred with bruises, purple-blue splotches that dotted a trail from his high cheekbone down to his jaw, and around his left eye. If she were brave enough to go peel back the hospital gown and bandages, Cuddy knew what she would find, and the very thought of it made her clench her fists in anger. If any of the men who had done to this to her Head of Oncology were here right now, Cuddy sure as hell wouldn't hesitate in smashing their smug little faces in with a couple of well-placed blows, her reputation be damned.

But she wasn't, and that was just it. She wasn't brave enough to do anything save for stand there. It was hard enough to look at the abused flesh as it was, and any words of comfort she could manage to pull for her muddled mind died on her lips of caught in her throat. She wanted, she wanted so _badly_ to reassure House, herself, and anyone who would listen that everything would be fine, but she couldn't. Her heart seized painfully in her chest and she swallowed thickly.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Doctor James Wilson was not supposed to lie there, whiter than the hospital bed sheets, looking like a doll that some nasty little kid had torn apart and then tried putting back together again with string and duct tape. Patients were supposed to be patients, doctors were supposed to be doctors and remain in their role. Doctors were not supposed to treat their colleagues. Her eyes traveled from the emotionally unstable, kind, damaged man to his bitter, cranky, addict best friend- and wasn't quite sure whom she felt sorrier for, of for whom her heart was aching.

_Oh physician, heal thyself._

Never had she seen a more tragic, yet well-balanced pair. One was day and the other night, the ying to the yang, the black to the white. Wilson was the organization to House's insanity, the calm voice of reason to his bitter anger. He was the water to battle the fire of House's pain and wrath, the warm, radiant sun to the cold shadow of the moon. Two halves of the same whole. Siamese twins there were not joined at the hip (oh God, she could just imagine House's snarky remark to that thought, and Wilson's sheepish grin that would follow), but somewhere far deeper than outward appearances. One would truly be nothing without the other. And above all, that's what Cuddy feared the most.

She walked to the bedside, and took Wilson's hand- or rather, tried to. It was bit hard to do so when there was a bulky cast there. So instead, she chose to reach up and brush his imp, chestnut hair away from his forehead. She could practically feel the twin orbs of blue boring a hole into the side of her head as House followed her every move. Leaning over, she kissed Wilson's pale forehead as a mother would to her child. "James," she whispered, talking low enough for what she said to only be heard by the oncologist. Yes, she believed that even in the dark limbo of unconsciousness, Wilson could hear her. "James, hang in there. You have to pull through…for the sake of your patients, this hospital…for House."

_Blip. Blip. Blip._

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

And call her crazy, but Cuddy was sure that some of the lines of pain on Wilson's face disappeared then. She could've sworn that he breathed easier, and she would bet her life on the fact that some of the tension in his body faded away. Looking up, she exchanged a meaningful look with House. They spoke without words, their eyes displaying all the emotions that each respective doctor felt. After a moment, Cuddy turned and began to walk towards the door, unable to shake the queasy feeling that had suddenly wormed its way into her gut. For a second she hesitated, once gain glancing over her shoulder. The incessant symphony orchestrated by Wilson's monitors and the annoyingly loud clock hammered its taunting melody into her mind.

"Cuddy."

She turned, surprised, as he spoke. His forehead was still pressed against the handle of his cane, shoulders slumped and brilliant blue eyes screwed shut it- was it agony? Sorrow? Or annoyance? She didn't know. Ten years of knowing him, and she had not a clue what went on in that genius, screwed up mind of his. The only person who could ever boast of reading House like an open book with deadly accuracy was James Wilson. He only knew one language, but he spoke it well. Not that he could employ that skill right now…

"Cuddy." Louder this time, yet in the same frightening monotone that she was sure she didn't like.

"I'm here."

"Take the clock away. Please." It was a simple request, one that would've seemed odd to the casual listener, but she knew the reason behind it, and obliged without question.

"All right."

With her back against the wall, Cuddy looked down at the object she held in her hands, feeling the sudden, irrational urge to hurl it out a window swelling up within her chest like a tidal wave. Her throat constricted painfully as she imagined it shattering glass and sending the shards in a magnificent shower in every which direction, screaming at the injustice of it all. Unfortunately, Deans of Medicine do not throw random objects out of their hospital windows in a rage. She would've been admitted to the psych ward upstairs. Firmly grasping to what seemed like the last strands of sanity she had left, Cuddy resorted to clutching the clock to her chest and sitting down heavily on one of the hospital's waiting chairs instead.

Whoever had said time was on their side must've been insanely optimistic, or just plain…insane. Time was on no one's side. All of a sudden, Lisa Cuddy was very much aware of her own mortality, and the very thought of the inevitable made her shiver. Here she was, thirty-eight years old, with nearly a good one-fourth of her life behind her. There was no fountain of youth, no mythical key to immortality. Everyone died sooner or later, and the only difference was with which type of attitude that certain individual decided to face the mortal veil of death.

It came to all. Like a fleeting shadow that hung over all that was joyous long after the dark angel had passed, it was even more so evident in this hospital. The truly brave accepted it, the intelligent were those who tried to prevent it, and the fools and cowards were those who denied it. No matter by what means a person's blood stopped pulsing, their heart stopped pumping, and neurons stopped firing, it was always unfair. Always. Due to her profession, Cuddy was no stranger to all of this. She had wept with patients and their families; she had stared into the cruel face of the end and felt the warmth of life slipping away under her fingers more times than she wished to count. But never did she expect to find herself in a situation like this.

Every one always claimed that she appeared lovely when angry; ethereal, even. She was Xena, the warrior princess astride this hospital of her battlefield, waging a war against the inevitable. She was the powerhouse of all that occurred here, the strong foundation upon which Princeton-Plainsboro rested. To all, Doctor Lisa Cuddy was the avenging Athena disguised in business suits and Christian Dior J'adore in place of leather and feminine sweat (here, House would've leered at her in a most unpleasant way once again, whereas Wilson would simply shake his head and smile). With a sigh, she looked down at the green linoleum of the hospital floor. As much as she secretly adored the complements and flattery, she knew it wasn't true.

It was doctors like Wilson who shouldered the true burden. If she was Athena, Wilson would be Atlas. He poured so much of himself into his work and his patients, so much of his time, energy, and happiness. He knew that specializing in oncology would be like tying his own hands for slaughter, but Wilson being who he was, really didn't care. His joy and courage became that of this patients' (which was probably why he never had any left for himself) and their pain became his. That was what kept this hospital running alive: doctors who cared. Sometimes, she idly wondered if many of the times her Head of Oncology's patients made miraculous comebacks wasn't because of the great care and affinity Wilson showered upon them. Patients didn't need an administrator in a suit that sat behind a desk and filled out paperwork. They needed a friend, which is exactly what they found in Doctor James Evan Wilson.

He really was Atlas, she mused. One shift in his stance, one slight tremor in his strong shoulders- and nearly everything would be amiss. If Wilson was miserable, House would be miserable as well, more so than he already was, which in turn would make her cranky and snappish. The rest of the staff would then be terrorized and burned harshly with the blazing temper of the Diagnostician without the calmness of a certain Oncologist to put out the flames. She shuddered, thinking of the darkness that had settled over Princeton-Plainsboro when Tritter had caused a great and terrible rift in House and Wilson's odd friendship, a rift that she hoped to high heaven was now mended.

The instrument in her hands ticked loudly and grey eyes glanced at it. Cuddy ran manicured fingers over the glossy surface, feeling each second tremor beneath her hands. Each passing moment seemed to mock her- and the world, for that matter- with its impossibly loud notion that another second in time had passed, another second gone from life. In her mind's eye, Cuddy saw her Head of Oncology, battered and defenseless, like a child's toy that had been swatted aside by a careless hand and then trampled underfoot where it lay.

Groaning, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, clock lying temporarily forgotten in her lap. In her heart, she knew that the image was one she would carry to her grave- just like another image her mind held; this one was of one angry, misanthropic, sarcastic bastard gasping and nearly screaming with pain in a hospital bed, clutching his right leg as lines of agony etched themselves deep into the lines of his face.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Cuddy looked down at the offending instrument once again and as she did, a single tear freed itself and fringed on her eyelash, before dropping onto the clock face with a soft _plip._ That was all it took for the floodgates to burst open with out any hope of restraint or repair. Hugging the clock to her chest like her last lifeline, Lisa Cuddy bowed her head and wept. She wept for James Wilson, for Gregory House, and at the injustice of it all. But then again, where was there any real justice in the world? Justice was simply retribution and revenge in fancy dress. Who was seeking revenge upon Wilson? Or maybe it was House's fault. Hell, maybe it was her fault- who knew?

The ancient Greeks fiercely embodied the ideals of justice and moral responsibility for their own actions; Cuddy fervently racked her memory for any wrongdoings she could rectify. What was the use though? she could no sooner turn back the hands of time than she could expect House to stop popping Vicodin. A bitter smile crept over her features at the unconscious analogy and it only served to make her cry harder once she realized the truth of the matter.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

_Oh Death, where is your sting? Oh Hades, where is your victory?_

"Here," she whispered out loud, throat choked with tears and voice thick with emotion. It was here, in the unstoppable, destructive, and all-devouring hands of Cronus. "_Here._"

_Tick. Tick. Ti-_

The glass cracked and flew in a million directions as the clock face hit the floor. Hospital personnel stopped to stare and murmured in low voices. The clock rolled on its rim in one complete circle then fell, as if in slow motion. And as the innumerable pieces of glass shattered, Cuddy shattered too.

**A/N: Reviews make me very happy…and could mean another chapter!! **


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